


Focus

by HtonS



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Narcotics, Rough Sex, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25693903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HtonS/pseuds/HtonS
Summary: Harry thinks that Jean is right. Kim really will stand by him until the end, eventually walk into his own grave, because Kim is crazy, just like him. But Kim is a quiet kind of crazy; he loves Harry with the focus of a sniper rifle’s scope.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Focus

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Фокус](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22990324) by [HtonS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HtonS/pseuds/HtonS). 



> A light-year-sized thank you to my dear beta-reader **rosecat13**!

A cold drop falls like a grenade on Harry Dubois' face, followed by a handful of cannister shot spit pellets in a warm, erratic spray. Saliva fountains out of Jean's mouth, his face disappearing and appearing again in the humid darkness, his visage barely lit by the pale yellow light of a light bulb.  
The light bulb has poor wiring; it flickers and buzzes like a mosquito with a sore throat, its scant light refracting in the foamy spray of Jean's wrath, and Harry can almost see rainbow spots. There is something disco about it.  
The amphetamines, which made everything seem full of infinitely deep details, have almost worn off for the evening. Their inevitable retreat fills Harry with despair. One of the voices in his head suffers especially badly, the one that drools at the thought of the bottle which is waiting for him like a loyal wife, ready to chase away the LSD-parting blues with its company. This voice is now whining and writhing, begging him to check his pockets: maybe there is at least half a dose left in them?  
Harry has always had a hard time denying it anything. When he starts rummaging around in his pockets Jean finally decides he’d had enough, and hits him across the face with the back of his hand. The pain from the hit blocks out the conversations in Harry's head for a second, and he finally focuses on Jean's eyes and voice.  
"What?... Sorry, buddy, I was distracted," Harry speaks slowly, trying hard not to stumble over the consonants.  
"You motherfucker!" Jean is screaming; his face scrunches up in a crescendo of rage.  
_"He’s at his limit - it’s almost amusing. How far off do you think he is from an aneurysm?"_ comments one of the voices.  
Jean grabs Harry by the lapels of his coat, shakes him violently, and Harry sees a piece of Revachol's night sky covered by a murky goo of clouds. With effort, he turns his gaze back to his former partner's face.  
"You are completely off the fucking rails! What the fuck are you doing, you snivelling piece of shit addict? You almost got you and Kitsuragi killed today!" Jean's teeth are clacking very close to Harry's face, and the officer winces back. Jean's eyes look huge on his unshaven and angry face. Huge and full of hatred.  
_"Not hatred-"_ helpfully supplies his cingulate cortex _"- but fear. Look, he is still trembling at the knees. Maybe he’s soiled his pants - can you smell it?"_  
"Relax, Jean. I've solved the case, after all!" Harry's lips stretch in a crooked, smug grin.  
To be fair, Jean should thank the LSD that Harry shared with some young delinquents not too far from the Jamrock's warehouses. The police would have never found the dealer had Harry not decided to participate in a backstreet team building exercise. Turns out, only one dealer adds a little bit of myorelaxant into his product to spare his precious clients annoying amphetamine cramps.

Everything happened splendidly, went off with a bang! They all entered the "souvenir shop" together; Harry enjoying the multifaceted, dusty smell with each inhale and almost dancing as he walked, his partner Kim Kitsuragi looking calm and composed as always, and an aggressive and surly Jean Vicquemare trudging behind. The three of them had already visited nearby docks where some local sailors couldn't resist Harry's unconventional interrogation techniques and tipped them about this den.  
The ensuing gossip from their talk was probably more than loud enough to reach the doors before the police, though: when they arrived, half a dozen sturdy tattooed fellows led by a bearded man in an expensive-looking leather jacket were already lined up to greet them.  
The leader, Pierre Boucher, stepped in front and looked the policemen over.  
"Look, boys, these are the two faggocops," he announced loudly, imagined spittle dripping from his lip. Dirty yellow rivulets of his disgust were streaming down his face and dropping with a splash onto the dented floor. Dubois' empathy, after consulting with the LSD, started to shade other people's emotions in all colors of the rainbow.  
"Why so rude? Three faggocops, don't forget about Jean," answered Harry. He felt rather friendly towards the man, as he was currently experiencing the full quality of his amphetamines.  
"I've got nothing to say to faggots."  
Accompanied by Jean's loud swearing, Harry approached Boucher, carefully avoiding the quivering yellow blots on the floor.  
_"It's not just disgust, Harry-boy. The color is muddy like diarrhea."_  
Harry regarded the dealer with renewed focus. The expensive jacket fit him poorly and was slightly twisted on the side. Pierre's right hand twitched, but he didn't budge.  
"Stay where you are, fag," there was a threat in his voice.  
"I may be a faggot," Harry spread his arms in a calming gesture and glanced at Kim - unreadable even with the drugs, like an electric pole. Harry suddenly felt giddy: he always liked to piss homophobes off with his utter lack of shame. "but you are a complete bitch. Karon is screwing your ass, and you just beg for more."  
"What're you getting at? You want to die?" growled Pierre. Red and black spots convulsed and writhed on his face like light refracted from a disco ball. Fear and anger.  
"Don't be shy - when I get fucked, I ask for what I want. I like it - pushing back, letting it ride, disco all the way. I take it balls-deep out of love." Harry is having more and more fun as he agitated the shifting discotheque on the dealer's face. He’s getting close. A little bit more, and Pierre would be shitting a golden egg. "But you, Pierre? You're letting him fuck you out of fear. He's got you so good that you're too afraid to say anything about it."  
The barrel that touched Dubois under the chin smelled sharply of gun oil. Harry nuzzled the cool metal with his stubbled cheek and closed his eyes in pleasure. "You've even oiled your gun, what, about two, three days ago? Are you scared that Karon is coming for you too?"  
The red-black flicker on Pierre's face smeared into a blurry ripple of panic, and a distinct click of a cocked trigger tickled sensitive hair behind Harry's ear.  
"Please, lower the gun, Monsieur Boucher," the lieutenant's soft voice sounded from somewhere behind Harry’s left shoulder, "We are not here to arrest you. We just want to talk."  
"Shut up, you cross-eyed pig! I will fucking end all of you right here!" hissed Pierre. His aim shifted to Harry's partner. Kim froze like a statue, the corners of his eyes behind the glasses turned black in Harry’s vision.  
"I’ll kill all of you pigs, and then that bastard Karon! But I’m starting with this loud-mouthed faggot."  
The pistol barrel started to change target again, and at that moment the lieutenant took off. Like an orange flash of lighting, he grabbed Pierre's wrist and yanked him down. A gunshot boomed, the bullet piercing yellow gelatinous mass of Pierre's disgust and burying itself in the floorboard. Then an elbow joint cracked, Pierre howled, and Jean roared, threatening "to shoot the first idiot who moves."  
"Just like that, baby!!!" Harry let out an impressed whistle, his head light from the LSD and sudden arousal. Clutching his belt and biting his lip, Harry watched with undisguised lust as Kitsuragi cuffed Pierre's hands behind his back, ignoring his screams and the unnatural bend of his elbow.  
He met his partner’s eyes for a second, and for some reason Harry felt very cold inside, as if his guts were stuffed full of ice.  
But, Harry is a superstar, so he ignored the discomfort and announced with theatrical aplomb:  
"Let's go get Karon, he’s our man!"

"It all turned out great in the end, didn't it?" Lieutenant-double-yefreitor's answer to Jean is carefree.  
Jean's eyes narrow, he stares for a moment into Harry's dilated pupils and then shoves him away with force. Harry collides with the police vehicle behind him and rubs his bruised lower back.  
"Turned out great?!" Vicquemare chokes and falls silent for a minute. During this silence, Harry almost gets lost in the smell of car fuel coming from the Kineema. Kim's fingers smell the same when he returns from the garage.  
"You know, you piece of shit, I'm so tired of you," Vicquemare stops yelling, but his voice trembles with aggression.  
_"It’s true, you don’t remember anything, but you burned his soul out. He watched for six years as you gut yourself and devoured your own liver."_  
Harry cringes at this revelation.  
"Have you even seen Kitsuragi in the past three weeks? Half of his hair’s turned grey."  
Harry hesitantly shifts his feet. For the past three weeks, he has been in a rock-solid union with a bottle interspersed with an alliance with restricted substances. He’s not even sure how many nights of these three weeks Kim slept at home. Definitely not the night when, high from the evidence locker coke, Harry was crying for Dora while lying on his and Kim's bed with his hand on his dick. Kim watched this action for exactly two seconds before turning in one crisp motion and walking out.  
"We've been here already, haven't we?! Dora was a smart girl, she cut you out of her life like an abscess." Jean continues, his voice getting quieter with every word. "But Kitsuragi is fucking going to stand by you until the end. You’ll bring him to his grave, you degenerate bastard."  
Jean's eyes shine in the intermittent light, emotions coating them with an oily film. Pain, embedded deeply, like a grease stain in a fabric.  
_"He respects the lieutenant immensely. And he loves you, you worthless drunkard, even if there's no reason to love you anymore and he barely has anything left in him to love you with. You used to be his best friend."_  
Harry has no answer to this, and he starts again to rummage around in his pockets with trembling hands, searching for at least a cigarette.  
"Why don't you go fuck yourself, Harry," Jean steps towards the back entrance, spits, mutters something under his breath, and leaves Harry alone in the nook behind the building after slamming the door. His words, barely intelligible behind the noise of a passing car, were clearly not intended for Harry's ears.  
"You should muster some decency and die alone somewhere. At least let him live." catches Harry with his hearing, enhanced by the amphetamines.  
There aren’t any cigarettes in the pockets of his coat or jacket, so Harry looks helplessly around the dirty nook, scantly lit by the dying light bulb. Maybe there’s at least an unfinished cigarette butt somewhere?  
"Bingo!" Harry leans over to pick up his booty, and almost topples over onto the wet asphalt, dizzy.  
_"Here we go, the downward slope of the LSD rollercoaster. You absolutely shouldn't be upset right now, Harry, look what happened! Well, nothing a couple of good puffs of smoke can’t fix."_  
"Shit, it's soaked." Harry tosses the disintegrating cigarette butt away and swallows a lump in his throat.  
His empathy repeats Jean's words over and over again, and with each iteration the words carry more and more weight. He’s right. Kim really will stand by him until the end, eventually walk into his own grave, because Kim is crazy, just like him. But Kim was a quiet kind of crazy; he loves Harry with the focus of a sniper rifle’s scope.  
The voices in Harry's head suddenly erupt with a geyser of judgments and arguments, yelling excitedly, trying to drown each other out like they were bidders at market. Harry's temples split from this cacophony, and he touches Kineema's cold metal with his forehead, waiting for them to come to a conclusion.  
The debate in his skull cuts off with a strange echo, as if somebody had hit an empty casserole dish with a spoon.  
_"Kim will stand by you, but he won’t follow you into the abyss,"_ the wonderful, insightful thought appears in the midst of this silence, as if it was pushed onto a catwalk. A sudden relief washes over Harry as he smiles: Jean is a great guy, and he's right in that Kim will follow him to the very end. But if Harry just quietly disappears, Kim will go on with his life.  
Still smiling, Harry leans over to Jean’s well-kept car.  
"Say hello to your girlfriend, beautiful," Harry asks, stroking the vehicle's wet side with his palm. The Kineema is full of professional restraint, of course, but it is pleased with the affection. And naturally it knows Kim’s motor carriage, and is even a bit jealous because of all the love that the lieutenant gives to his charge. But regardless of its envy, it will pass on Harry's regards in the sound of a starting engine when the two cars stand next side by side in the police parking slots.  
"Thank you, beautiful," Harry winks in the right mirror of the Kineema and heads to the entrance.  
Jean should be as far away as his legs could get him, and there’s usually nobody left in the station at this time of night.  
Harry remembers that his gun has been locked in Kim’s drawer for three weeks now, but that the lock there is so old that it could be opened with a careless insult.  
Lieutenant Kitsuragi will not return to the station soon, either: Karon is based on the territory of the forty-third, and inter-district issues take a lot of time.  
_"He probably won’t even come home - he’ll spend a night in his Kineema. Won't be his first time either."_  
Harry’s gut twists with guilt, and he becomes even more resolved in his decision. He owes Kim a quick resolution, so the option of an unnamed alleyway is out of question. Harry thinks of the nook behind the precinct which he just came from, but feels bad for the dormant Kineema there. The hardworking beauty certainly didn’t deserve to have his brains splattered over its windshield.  
Harry enters the dark office and turns on the lamp on Kitsuragi's desk. The lock on the drawer gives up with an offended creak after Harry jolts it and calls it a toilet latch.  
Harry's gun rests serenely on a neat pile of old reports, indifferent towards whom it spits out death.  
Harry takes the pistol out of the drawer and warms it in his palm for a few minutes before loading it with a single bullet.  
He is calm when he moves to his own seat and brings the barrel of his weapon to his temple.  
_"If you shoot like this, your brains will spill out onto Jean’s desk. Do you really want to screw him over one last time? Turn twenty-six degrees clockwise."_  
Harry turns as the voice tells him and arms the hammer. A dry click, like a bone against bone, coincides with the soft sound of a door opening.  
Harry's heart rate spikes, sweat rolling down his forehead. He wasn't expecting any witnesses.  
Then Kim's slender silhouette appears in the threshold, cast in the cool blue light streaming from the otherwise empty corridor.  
Harry is presented to him like an actor on a theater stage, illuminated by the spotlight of a lamp on the nearby desk. Kim's eyes go wide behind the thick glasses, and Harry sees the blood draining from his face.  
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Harry panics, pulling all his willpower into his spasming finger on the trigger. It's now or never.  
In the next millisecond, Kim snatches the Kiel from the inner pocket of his jacket and presses the barrel to the back of his head without hesitation, gun already cocked. A bullet from this angle will tear through the brain stem - instant death without a chance.  
Kim stares into his partner's eyes without blinking, and Harry's hand trembles. He knows that if he pulls the trigger now he’ll die before hearing the second shot, but it will certainly come, because Kim Kitsuragi never bluffs.  
_"He doesn’t want to die, but he'll do it. He doesn’t want a repeat of that nightmare in Martinaise when he was covered up to the elbows in your blood, trying to push your soul back into your body through the bullet holes. He knows this time, if that nightmare repeats, there won’t be a happy ending."_  
Harry remembers how he woke up in the motel after the shootout, and in a rare moment of clarity induced by painkillers and blood loss, was feverishly kissing the lieutenant's fingers. They smelled of antiseptic, and Kim's bruised face with prominent cheekbones was the most beautiful thing to Harry in this new world. He remembered how he thanked the lieutenant for saving his life and vowed that someday, somehow, he’d repay this debt.  
Almost choking on the core-deep disgust of himself, Harry lowers the gun. The lieutenant appears right next to him even before he has time to complete the movement, twisting the weapon out of Harry's hand and tossing it aside like a viper. There’s a sound of a cup shattering, and Harry's head snaps towards this sound. Strong sinewy fingers grab a handful of his hair, and the desktop rises suddenly to smash viciously into his face. The desk had wanted this for a long time, as Harry vomited on it more than once, kept resting his feet in smelly shoes on its surface, and for weeks neglected wiping off the rings left by the coffee cup.  
Harry howls at the blinding pain that pierces his face. The thin bones of the bridge of his nose crunch, and tears sprinkle from his eyes along with blood from his nostrils. Without a word, Kim drags Harry by the hair away from the desk, and sends him to the floor with a kick in the calf.  
Dripping red onto the office carpet, Harry looks up at Kim, his sight blurred with tears. Kitsuragi's pale face is blank, as if all his emotions had been banished from his head and pushed into his body, tense and ready for the next blow. Harry shudders, his spinal cord horrified and aroused by this force, as he gapes, astonished, with something suspiciously close to awe.  
For all the time after Martinaise, for all the two years that Harry tortured Kim with his regular relapses into alcoholism and drug abuse - Kim had never raised his voice at him, much less a hand. Patiently waiting out these episodes, Kim dragged baked or drunk Harry out of the drug dens, cleaning up the mess and protecting Du Bois from Vicquemare's wrath. Kim was telling Harry that he believed in him, that no one could beat the addiction straight away, and that Harry's sober periods were getting a little longer each time. Knowing Kitsuragi, he probably keeps a diary where he notes his partner's progress in the fight against alcohol with clinical pedantry.  
_"Even Her Innocence Dolores Dei was capable of a genocide rampage. This is Kim's equivalent: senseless violence."_  
After the next kick to the ribs Harry's body cannot decide whether to throw up or come in his pants. He still vomits the blood which he swallowed earlier, but his now painful boner remains. Kim kicks him a couple more times before grabbing his hair again and jerking him to his feet. Harry's knees are shaking with pain and arousal, and he doesn't even think to resist when Kim throws him belly-first onto the hard tabletop.  
Harry remembers how he finally pulled off Kim's shirt for the first time, drunk with only anticipation. And how in the whirlwind of animal oblivion he didn't notice when, despite the difference in height and weight, he found himself on his knees and elbows. How he groaned Kim's name into the pillow, furiously jerking off while taking another man's cock for the first time in his life.  
_"Overestimated your charm, Harry-boy, thought he'd let you drive while you couldn't tell the brake from the throttle?"_  
"Ki-im," Harry moans desperately, wordlessly pleading for the lieutenant to finally stop the beating and get to the fucking. It seems that the power of Harry's thoughts reaches the target, because Kim exposes Harry's ass and drives his cock inside to the root without any preparation.  
The muscles in Harry's limbs spasm and lock from an unexpectedly sharp pain, but part of his mind is ecstatic: the part that isn't occupied with pathetic sobs and attempts to relax against the burning sensation.  
Kim fucks him mercilessly, leaning on him with his full body and twisting his neck back with an iron grip in his hair. Harry's long-suffering desk shifts a good ten centimeters, and the moldy cup full of pens rolls down to the floor, scattering the contents.  
_"He marks you, sobbing, writhing, but alive. He doesn't want you to forget about him soon."_  
Harry once again appreciates the depth of his own madness, as he screams under Kim, spilling in a catharsis of orgasm. He feels enlightened, as if emerging from the turbulent stream of his unreliable mind.  
_"This is so you, Harry-boy: the life lessons can only get to you through the ass. Ask for an encore on occasion,"_ comments one of the voices condescendingly, and Harry finds it hard to disagree.  
As soon as Harry quiets down, Kim pulls out and tucks himself back into his pants with unsteady movement.  
"What about you?" wheezes Harry, confused. He definitely did not last long enough for Kim to come as well.  
"Let's go, Harrier. We need to take care of your nose," Kim answers quietly, his delicate West-Revacholian accent unusually rich. Harry winces at the sound of his full name.  
The lieutenant heads for the exit, walking around the blood stains on the floor in a wide semicircle.  
Harry peels off the table and collects himself as he limps on stiff legs after Kitsuragi. The old thigh wound aches like a bitch, but neither it nor even the broken nose can match the pain in his abused ass, and Harry whines, leaning against the doorframe.  
It usually takes about fifteen minutes to get home, but with frequent breaks they need almost half an hour. Kim waits without a word while Harry clings to yet another lamppost, always keeping a few steps away.  
This silence scares Harry even more than anything Kim could have said: he can't take it anymore. He calls his partner by name, and when Kim doesn't answer, Harry grabs him by the sleeve of his orange jacket.  
Kim carefully releases his grip on the sleeve and looks away. "Please, Harry, don't say anything right now, okay?" he asks. "We’re almost there."  
Kim lets Harry into the apartment first, locks the door, and goes into the bathroom while taking off his jacket.  
_"He will now wash your face and give you some painkillers. Then, while you are dozing off on the couch, he will pack his things and leave the keys on the table. Sans a note, because everything is clear anyway."_  
Harry heaves through his mouth, fighting the panic and bile rising in his throat. He blocks the front door with his large body and decides that he will not move an inch away from this threshold. He will sleep right there on the floor so Kim can't leave .  
When Kim comes back from the bathroom with a basin full of water and a clean white towel in his hands, Harry feels his eyes well up with tears again.  
"Harrier, could you take off your shirt? And please, move to the kitchen."  
Harry shakes his head and fumbles with the buttons of his shirt for a whole minute. Kim watches his struggle intently, fingers clenched white on the handles of the basin.  
Finally Harry sheds his shirt, jacket and windbreaker and leans on the front door. His breath whistles through the thickened blood in his nose, and haematomas in the shape of the lieutenant's boot are blooming on his sides.  
Kim turns pale and staggers a half-step; it’s so quick Harry thinks that his eyes might’ve tricked him. "I'll go... get... the medicine." The lieutenant carefully deposits the basin on the chair and heads to the kitchen while touching the wall with his palm.  
The lights turn on, there is a creak of kitchen cabinets being opened, a rustle, the sound of glass falling on the tiled floor, an almost inaudible curse, and then silence.  
No, not silence: there is a sound stifled shuddering gasps. Harry's hearing is definitely alright.  
Pushing away from the door, Harry stumbles closer and peers into the kitchen.  
Kim is sitting on the floor by the sink, shoulders trembling. His cracked glasses lay by the wall, and a heap of bandages and some pills are piled up on the counter. Kim is pressing his palm to his mouth, tears streaming down his pale, gaunt cheeks.  
_"Today you almost lost your life twice right before his eyes, the second time on your own free will. He almost lost his own life, and both times were because of you. And then he fucked you up. He cannot look neither at you, nor at himself. You deserve a medal: you broke him."_  
"Kim..." Harry drops to his knees next to the lieutenant and squeezes his bony shoulder.  
"My glasses. I can't find them." Kim turns away and helplessly feels with his hand on the floor. He’s almost blind without the fucking binoculars.  
"And what does he have to look at? At my fucked-up mug?" Harry thinks. He manhandles Kim to face him, pulls his hand off his wet face and kisses the beating vein on his wrist. Kim shudders with his whole body and tries to pull away, but Harry doesn't let him. He palms Kim's face with both hands, licks the salty liquid from his mouth and cheeks, and then kisses, wet and long, until he is out of breath. Inhaling deeply, Harry pulls the lieutenant against his chest, presses his lips to his neck, and Kim trembles in his arms.  
Harry tugs off Kim's shirt, meets no resistance and, encouraged, pushes him to the floor, covering him with his body.  
Harry bites Kim's nipples lightly, deftly unbuckles his belt and pulls his pants down, running his hot palm over the man’s naked thighs. The boots don’t allow him to get rid of the pants completely, and Harry is slightly annoyed by this, as well as by Kim's faint protests. Kim is trying to remind him that the hallway window seen from the kitchen opens onto a public balcony.  
But Harry knows no shame, so he flips Kim over towards the floor, jerks his hips up and starts licking his ass like a huge dog. Kim chokes on a groan and bites on his fist as Harry's long tongue snakes into him, gently stretching the muscles of the entrance.  
It was difficult for Kim to take his lover in, both in length and girth, so Harry tries very hard to prepare Kim with his tongue and fingers. He’s so carried away in his ministrations that he ignores Kim calling his name in a choked voice and trying to push him away in warning.  
When he feels rhythmic contractions of Kim's body around his fingers, Harry looks up in surprise and stares at the whitish puddle on the floor under his belly.  
Kim hides his face in his hands in embarrassment.  
_"He is in his forties, and he wants the ground to swallow him."_  
Harry is reeling with arousal, he twists, yelping from the pain in his bruised ribs, and laps the streaks of sperm from Kim's stomach and thighs. The last of the lieutenant's clothes and his shoes are thrown into the hallway, and Harry spreads his legs to get back to the licking.  
"Bed, Harry...!" begs the lieutenant, and Harry lets go of him, allowing them to relocate to the soft surface of the bed.  
Harry swiftly gets rid of his own pants and underwear, glad that Kim can’t see the blood on his thighs without the glasses.  
"Kim," Harry's whisper is wet in Kim’s ear, "...can I…?"  
Kim quickly nods as he wraps his hands around his lover's neck, and Harry sinks into the tight, trembling warmth with a deep moan. Harry almost comes just from the feeling alone, well, that and from the sound that leaves Kim's lips. Harry starts to move slowly and gently, aware that with his size he cannot afford to lose self-control, but he already has goosebumps running down his spine from the sounds that Kim makes at the peak of each small thrust.  
Harry needs very little when he hears Kim like this, and his control falters as he pushes in a little bit deeper than intended. Kim screams and arches, squeezes Harry's cock inside of him, and comes the second time - in his forties be damned.  
Harry follows him, groans into Kim's open mouth, and passes out for a second.  
Kim pushes Harry off himself and sits up on the bed, naked and disheveled. Harry's eyes droop with exhaustion, but he keeps them open with sheer willpower, admiring the sight. He finds Kim's hand without looking and rubs his cheek with a spreading bruise against it.  
Kim puts on spare glasses from the bedside table and examines Harry's face closely.  
"Come with me to the bathroom," he orders, and Harry crawls out of bed and pulls on his pants.  
Kim rinses his partner's face, checks the bruises on his sides, and gently probes his nose and ribs. He feeds him a handful of painkillers and declares that Harry needs to see a doctor tomorrow.  
Harry is melting under his touch, and he’s so drowsy with the sleepy fog in his head that he is ready to agree to anything. He grabs the lieutenant's hands every now and then to kiss his fingers, interfering with his work.  
Finally, Kim is done, so he rinses his hands and leaves the bathroom. Clothes rustle, and Kim's footsteps now head towards the door.  
_"Yes, yes, so long, the keys are on the table."_  
The drowsiness instantly evaporates from Harry's head, he knocks over the chair in which he was almost falling asleep just a moment ago, and dashes to cut Kim off from the door.  
The lieutenant looks up, puzzled, at the half-naked Du Bois blocking his path, an eyebrow raised in a silent question. Harry just shakes his head and pushes his back against the door.  
"Harry, would you like to let me pass?" Kim demonstratively takes out one "Astra" cigarette from the pack.  
"Smoke inside, it's raining."  
"Harry, if really I wanted to leave, I could just wait for you to pass out where you stand, and move you out of the way. I’d have to wait no more than five minutes."  
Harry tugs on Kim's jacket, as if trying to get him to take it off. Kim takes a step back and Harry lets go, a victorious smile on his face.  
He is clasping Kim's handcuffs, and the next moment he gingerly cuffs himself to the door latch. Now the door is definitely impossible to open without getting rid of the handcuffs.  
Kim looks with curiosity at cuffed Harry and raises an eyebrow again.  
"My argument still stands. As soon as you fall asleep, I just need to take the key from you."  
"This key?" Harry shows it in his palm.  
"Yes. And what are you going to... seriously, Harry…?"  
Kim watches, incredulous, as Harry swallows the key and grins smugly.  
Kitsuragi sighs and rolls his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitch in amusement like when Harry embarrasses himself in his own particularly theatrical way.  
Then Kim deliberately slowly swaggers to the window and pushes it up, letting in the humid night air. The lieutenant rests his elbows on the windowsill and, leaning out with half of his body, takes a deep drag of smoke.  
"Well, fuck..." Harry groans and bangs the back of his head against the door.  
The window, wide enough to let two Kims through, opens onto the public balcony.


End file.
